These Blood Red Eyes Don't See So Good
by The Divine Fool
Summary: Eric Cartman breaks his elbow over winter break and, oddly enough, Kenny decides to visit him. Park County High School's driven a wedge between Cartman and...everyone else, and it's started to bother Kenny. slash, McCortman, or whatever it's called. T for language, of course.
1. Chapter 1

Chapter 1

I'd never really been all that bothered by injury; to myself or others.

Call it morbid or absurd, but for a guy who used to die nearly every day for the better part of his gruesome childhood, Kyle breaking his foot at an _Anthrax_ concert or Stan fracturing his wrists while snowboarding was never a big enough deal to draw me to Hells Pass Hospital for a heart-warming visit. Don't expect any balloons or goddamn flowers, either.

I myself cracked a rib last month after a brutal check in the Fort Collins game, and I didn't even open my eyes long enough to want to visit _me_.

Today was a little different, though.

The snow was falling uncharacteristically cheerful for Colorado. Usually we only get blizzards and carve-you-a-new-face hailstorms. The snow packs hard and fast and always travels on wind. But today in South Park it fell like how you imagine it _should_ fall on Christmas Day. The kind of snow that clings to your eyelashes and falls into your hair in frosty clumps. The kind you can sift through in your boots instead of having to curb-stomp down to make a path for yourself. Like a wood you walk through.

It was 8:30 a.m., prime-time family hour for Christmas and other holiday celebrators. I chose to walk down to the hospital at this time because it would be empty; everybody would be too busy at home on a Christmas morning. At my house, though, folks would just be starting to get home from their nights on the streets or, in my sister's case, with other people who actually cared.

The high school had let out Friday, so we'd only got Saturday and the start of today off so far, and Monday too. The junior class had a bullshit English project to do, so there wasn't much hope of seeing one of us out in the streets enjoying the gentle weather this holiday.

Usually Stan would be busy till noon with family stuff, then Kyle would go over to his place and they'd hang out, bitch about the project or watch movies. I'd join them before long. Then Cartman would show, having just escaped his guilty mother's obsessive attentions. She would've taken him to lunch somewhere in the city to make up for her frequent absences. She'd've complained, too. Complained that he smelled like smoke and that he looked sick and has he been eating properly?

This holiday, however, Mama Cartman had no need to come back to the house in South Park and spend time with her son, because he was in the hospital. She would've already sent him an extravagant gift to apologize to her "poopsykins" for being unable to visit. He would be overly accepting of her neglect and choose not to talk about it.

Eric Cartman had his own hand-picked offensive line on the varsity Park County High ice hockey team. He was unbelievably good. Still volatile, though. The kid who played for Denver's defensive line in our game Friday night was a fucking doucheand kept smashing Cartman's boys into the boards, so finally and unsurprisingly, Eric slashed him vicious, putting him on his ass in front of his whole team. Of course after the game they made like real men and fought it out in the parking lot.

So he's stuck in Hells Pass with a snapped left elbow and a couple fractured carpal bones in his right wrist. We don't know for sure, but we think the Denver kid left in worse shape. He was unconscious at the end of it, we know that much. Not to make a hero out of fat-ass, though. It's only 'cos he boxes now.

As little as I care, there _is _a certain sort of melancholy about Cartman being away from home over Christmas, banged up as he is. There's a sort of melancholy about _everything _to do with Cartman, these days. Most say he's a lot better than he used to be, but he's worse, I think. His whole miraculous outgrowing of childhood obesity didn't make him cocky, like we reckoned, instead when his family situation got worse his social skills were completely drained. He sat with us at lunch sometimes like we were doing him a favor by allowing it. Sometimes he didn't even show up for school. And looking so depressed and sick and cruel all the time, he's barely approachable, otherwise he coulda picked up a girlfriend or something easily by now. I wish he'd be upfront with us. I wish he'd swear like he means it and be a dick like he used to be, if only it meant he was actually _feeling _something. Instead it's like having a grungy old sock in your backseat all the time, like you've been meaning to take care of that problem but never get to it because it's made itself insignificant in its silent persistence.

"They got free coffee down in the cafe, did you know?"

Cartman's eyes are the color of partially dried blood. A mahogany sort of brown-red.

I pulled up one of the uncomfortable visitor chairs obnoxiously close to Eric's bedside and put my coffee down on the nightstand. His elbow was in a heavy-duty brace and sling, and his right hand was all bound up. The white of the Hells Pass bed and the cheery glow of sunlight off of snow glaring through the window didn't suit him.

I noticed his hockey bag was in the corner, expensive sticks slung haphazardly across it. The assholes couldn't even bring his stuff home for him?

My friend took a deep breath, and spoke like it was a line he'd memorized long ago and had lost interest in it. "S'for the people paying thousand dollars a night just for a goddamn hand-me-down cast that'll probably give 'em ringworm, not the poor fucks that just wander in off the streets for the nearest open door."

I shrugged. "Alas, when you're a poor fuck, any door could be an open door with the right coercing, and any open door is an invitation. It's warm in this place, if nothin' else."

Under the harsh hospital fluorescents, Cartman had the cutest damn smattering of freckles over the bridge of his nose. Just a few and his skin was tan enough to almost hide them. Not from _my_ wandering eye, I guess, ho ho.

His silence was unnerving, but I was sorta used to it by now.

I had decided on the way here that enough was enough, and guessed I had to be an ass to really get down to it. "What's up with you, man? You're not the Cartman the Dick I used to know."

He wheezed what I guess was supposed to be a humorless chuckle. "Cartman the Dick lost his mind a long time ago."

I groaned. "Who _are _you, dude?"

"Why do you care?"

"'Cos you're...you're my best friend, bro. I thought you knew that."

"Don't shit-talk me, dude, I'll pop your fuckin' head open."

"Damn it, Eric, is it that hard to believe we actually care about what you get your ass into?"

Silence.

"Fuck! I thought you were a bit above it, Cartman, but if this whole attitude adjustment thing is just your way of coping with past guilt, and _that's _why you're a self-hating stoner right now, I will be so fucking pissed.

"We _know _that you're messed up, bro, we know it was bad when we were kids, but...I mean, we stuck together, right? Doesn't that mean anything? I sound like a goddamn pussy right now. This is your fault."

"What are you getting at, Kenny?"

"I love you, dude. I don't care about...you know. I'm just sick of seeing you so..._sick_, I guess, all the time."

Cartman turns his head away from me, unable to shift his upper body all that well. But I'd noticed the sleepless bruises beneath his red eyes and the pale sickly white of his neck.

"Lissen, I brought you something."

I pushed my hood down and produced a package wrapped in newspaper out of my orange jacket.

He turned back to me, looking just faintly uneasy.

"I, er, I guess I'll open it for you."

I had a job, for the weekends, making minimum wage. Not bad, at all, so it's not like I can't buy anything for myself or occasionally friends. Honestly, I'd bought this for Cartman a while ago, because I thought it was sorta _him_, and just today thought Christmas was a good excuse to give it to him for.

Simply, it was a necklace; just a ringlet of hemp with a skull hung from it carved of multicolored tire rubber. Hey, I spend but I never said I splurge. Besides, I like the simplicity. It's not super gay, and it's something the old Cartman wouldn't've minded.

Eric ducked wordlessly and, understanding, I stood and slid it over his head—tightening the knot so it hung just above his collarbone. "Merry Christmas, dude."

I hesitated, then convinced myself that running my hand through his stiff, overnight-hospital hair wasn't too offensive a come-on. He looked up at me through his melancholy red eyes and cleared his throat anxiously.

"Uh," He started, lifting his casted right hand up clumsily. "Here, just don't crush my elbow. Still hurts like a bitch."

Oh? A hug invitation from _Eric Cartman_? This's gotta blow some bets with the guys at the high school.

I took it gladly, nonetheless, no telling when the next chance would be. I got caught in an awkward girl position with my arms around his neck 'cos I didn't wanna jostle his injuries.

"Thanks," He rasped. "Means a lot. Coming from a motherfucking pauper, I mean."

I grinned as I pulled back, deciding it was okay to allow my hands to continue to mess with his hair. Not only had I gotten a rare glimpse of Cartman gratitude, but also a nice old-fashioned Cartman insult. Warms my damned heart, it does.

"When you allowed to get outta here?"

"I was allowed to get out last night. But..."

Ah. His mother. No one likes an empty house.

"Well, come on, then. We should go to Stan's."

"He done with his family scheisse at this hour?"

I shrugged. "Probably not. But Sharon loves me."

He whistled. "Mother_fucker_."

"Got your car? I walked."

"Yeah, keys are in the bag. Can you get my pants outa that? Damn hospital gowns don't suit me much outdoors."

"Oh really? Always thought they were so flattering." I drawled sarcastically while digging through his rank hockey gear.

I tossed the only pair of sweatpants I could find at him and made to look for a shirt.

"Don't bother. The butt-licker surgeon had to cut up my shirt to get to my elbow. It'll be garbage now. Dude, untie this goddamn thing for me." I obliged.

Oh, _shit_. Cartman's shoulders were ridiculous. I didn't even know you could _get_ muscles there. And damn, I'd already known the kid wasn't so much a fat-ass anymore—not that the insult's any less common—but he was a bulky type. I was just surprised how much of a turn-on that was now. Sadly not for the first time, I wondered if he was bi-curious at all. Just a little bit is all I need to make a move.

Ah, hell, that's gross, isn't it? No one hunts their best friend. Especially childhood best friend. That's goddamn freaky; I need my fucking head checked.

Cartman balanced his two hockey sticks between his right wrist and shoulder, leaving me with the bag. I dug out the keys to his clunky '93 Volvo Sedan before following him out the door to the main desk.

"You're gonna freeze, bro."

"Car's up front."

The woman at the desk who'd've rather been at home celebrating discharged Cartman with a couple forms for his mother and a prescription for some heavy pain meds, giving us just a few odd looks which glanced off of his stony exterior like tossed sand.

"Shit, it's cold. What's up with the weather?"

"Weird, huh? I've never seen it snow like this. Where's your car?"

Eric's black Volvo was hidden under a thin sheet of frost in the patient lot, and I hurried to start it up and get it warm before my friend had to add pneumonia to his broken elbow, carpal fractures, and possible ringworm. After shoving his hockey stuff in the backseat, I noticed he wasn't even making a move to get in.

"What're you doing? Get the hell in the car. It's probably below freezing out here."

He seemed to roll his eyes. "Actually, the cold sorta dulls the pain. Might get frostbite on my nipples, though."

"Don't be a moron, dude. Get in."

"Kenny, you poor piece of crap, I _can't open the door!_"

My face flushed in embarrassment immediately and I hurried around the car to open the door for my obviously incapacitated friend, taking the hockey sticks as well.

"Didn't know my sarcasm was so fucking advanced," He muttered.

"Well," I started, scowling resentfully as I slipped into the driver seat and disengaged the parking break. "Maybe if you actually _spoke _to us, I'd recognize your speech habits better."

"Don't fuck with me, dude."

Fresh snow crunched loudly beneath the Volvo's tires; Cartman had bought snows with freakin' _tank treads _on them so these road conditions were no problem at all. "Why're you so ready to believe everyone's tryin' to fuck with you, man? We _miss _you."

He turned his head to look out the window, knee jerking up and down like he needed a smoke.

"It's like you don't even believe me. Look, we love you, Cartman. Well, I don't know about—well yeah, even Kyle. You've always been our friend, bro, it's always been us four. When you just drop out like this, one year, it sucks for us too. And I know you've always fucked with us, but you fuck with other peoplemore than us, so I don't care. And this anti-social shit-"

"Just _shut up_, McCormick. You don't know me."

"How can you even say that? The only reason I don't know you now is 'cause you haven't _allowed _me to!"

"Maybe I don't want you to."

I pulled into South Park's CVS, the not-completely-empty parking lot looking promising. "Why you doing this to us, Eric? You've done some real shitty stuff in the past, but we all understood your motives...it's just your nature to be selfish, man, we get it. But now, I don't know how the hell to deal with you if you barely hang out with us any more."

"You're real fucking nosy, y'know that? Go get my shit."

I sighed in irritation and got out of the car, leaving it running so it wouldn't cool down again.

So maybe it was nosy, and way overly caring for someone usually unconcerned with others' misfortune, but most of what I'd said was honest truth. Maybe except the part about Kyle _really _hurting for Cartman's return. But my friend's situation had somehow wormed its way into my heart as something important, something that demanded to be resolved. _Fixed_. I wanted everything to go back to normal. I wanted Cartman to go back to being _my _best friend like Kyle was Stan's; I don't even care if he dares me to eat weird shit once in a while, as long as he's _here _again.

I turned in Cartman's papers to the pharmacist, and got a bottle of Percocet. I was a bit surprised; that stuff is like fuckin' whale sedative, or something. Even more surprising, Cartman's insurance actually covered it. Hah. I kill myself sometimes.

"Hey, I think I got some clothes in the trunk. Help me out. 'M cold."

Boy, being this kid's maid was getting old. I found an _Enjoi_ T-shirt in his trunk that actually didn't smell like Mr and Mrs Tenorman chili and helped fit it over his elbow brace. The shoulder part of the medical armor would make him look oddly crooked, but I guess it was better than freezing, even if I _did _lose my view. Fuck, I'm messed up.

Cartman's right hand—with its long, bruised and largely immobile fingers sticking out of the cast—gave me a weak pat on the back in thanks, and I could only manage a grim smile, making my way back to the driver side and this time setting out for Stan's house.

I might've bullied him further, but Cartman's red eyes looked glassy and his head was starting to fall forward. I figured either the pain was getting to him or he was legitimately tired, more likely both. He'd been on pain killer injections at the hospital until now, so I guessed the post-surgery thrum was starting to set into his left arm. He stared numbly at his right hand, slowly trying to bend each finger in turn until his head fell against the window and red eyes closed at last.

"Almost there, babe." I mumbled, turning onto Stan's street.

"I gotta piss," He murmured. "Look, a Jew."

Charming boy.

"Oh," I rolled down the muddy window and pulled up to the sidewalk where Eric had spotted Kyle walking. "Hey, Kyle."

The boy stopped, looking curiously at the black car he saw so little of, and stepped up to the window rubbing his nose against the chill.

"Cartman? Oh, it's you, Kenny. Why d'you have Cartman's—oh, you picked him up, huh?"

"Yeah, he ain't feelin' so well. Wanna lift to Stan's?" The injured in the passenger seat managed to shoot a glare at me for talking about him like he wasn't there.

Kyle glanced up at the distance between himself and the Marsh residence, then back to me. "Sure, I mean, if he doesn't mind."

Cartman was silent. Old Cartman would've thoroughly cussed out his heritage, at the very least, let alone give him a ride. I almost hit the injured boy, but, that's pretty weak.

I unlocked the back doors. "Get in."

Once Kyle had squeezed in beside Eric's hockey gear, with his feet in the rolling mess of energy drink cans on the floor, we set off.

I was gonna help Cartman out when we got there, but he'd already managed to pry the door open with his blackened fingers when I got around. Kyle winced at the sight.

I slipped Cartman's keys into the pocket of his sweats after locking the car as Kyle rang the bell. Normally he probably wouldn't even bother, but we were a bit early and didn't wanna disturb any Christmas festivities.

Luckily, a ruffled Stan still in pajamas opened the door.

"Kyle!" He grinned, pulling the Jew in quickly for a bro-hug. "Dude, I got the new Goldeneye! You know, 007 Reloaded?"

"_Fuck _yes, let's do this." As Kyle slipped inside, Stan noticed Cartman.

"Oh, hey Cartman," He stepped forward. "Whoa, that's creepy. Where'd you get it?"

Like a lot of people, Stan came face-to-face with Eric's collarbone, leading his eye to the skull resting on his clavicle.

I made up for the hockey player's exhausted grunt with an enthusiastic greeting of my own. It seemed Stan was finished with any family responsibilities and could get right to gaming and were we hungry? There's cookies. We headed down immediately to the Marshes' basement, where we could play and watch movies without interruption. Cartman first headed to the bathroom.

"Dude, why'd you get him so early?" Stan asked, biting his lip.

"Whaddu you mean, man? I felt bad. He's sorta alone, on _Christmas_."

"So are you, Ken, but—oh, that sounded bad. Sorry, bro. What I mean is he doesn't look well enough to be outside yet with those breaks."

"I know, but...what's the harm, anyway? You sound like you don't want him around."

Kyle sat on the couch beside Stan, struggling with the plastic wrap over his friend's new game. "It's not that, dude, you know it's not. I'd love to have Cartman over here, personally, he's beast at shooter games. But that ain't Cartman."

"Come on, Kyle, don't be so dramatic. We don't ditch Stan on his cynical days."

The Jew frowned, handing the game back to his black-haired friend who'd just retrieved a pair of scissors. "That's different. I don't think Cartman likes us any more."

"You sure he even wants to be here?" Stan asked.

"Well... yeah. He just...doesn't show it."

"Or know it."

"Fuck you, Kyle."

"Just callin' it like I see it, bro. I don't wanna make him uncomfortable or anything. Especially while he's sick." We stopped talking and listened to the faucet run like it had been for a while.

I wondered how he could possibly wash his right hand's black fingers and left's immovable wrist without being in extreme pain, and regretted not offering to go with him. But that's a bit awkward.

The door opened.

Cartman closed his eyes briefly and leaned heavily against the doorframe. "Kenny. The pills."

"Oh yeah, hang on. I don't know how many they want you taking..." I headed over with his prescription, twisting the bottle around to try and read the tiny Directions label.

"Just gimme the pills."

"Yeah, yeah. Stan, can you get a glass of water?" Stan headed to the mini-bar.

"Screw the water."

"Dude, you're not taking these dry on an empty stomach."

"Barbra _fucking _Streisand, Kinny, _give me those pills!_"

I cursed and gave him two, hoping that was an average enough dose. I've never been on Percocet before.

Once he'd forced down the little circular blue pills and washed it down with a late glass of water, Cartman was finally able to settle at the arm of an empty couch. It was a lot easier to concentrate and breathe when he wasn't standing up and looking angry. Stan and Kyle took the other couch, so I sat with Eric.

What if Stan's right? What if he _doesn't_ want to be here? I wondered. While I knew Cartman never really liked us back in elementary school, I'd assumed that like the rest of us, he'd accepted our group and its odd dynamic and grown closer once we'd started moving up in the school system. When our education started spreading to include the whole region, our new schools were much bigger than our old towny grade school had been: the masses of strange Park County kids drove those from South Park to band together, and we four became a real, inseparable _four_. Or so I thought. Maybe Cartman had wanted to branch out, and felt we were stopping him. Maybe he's not anti-social, he's just not social with _us_ anymore. That would suck. I mean, I knew our group was sorta popular, well-known and well-liked, but I didn't know Cartman was, personally. Then again, he's captain of the ice hockey team and a good linebacker; if that didn't win him allies then I can't think of what would. Millie "Lotus" Cross the former Raisins girl even asked him out last Thursday. Wonder how that went. Never liked Lotus.

"So Cartman," Stan started, watching intently as the PlayStation 3 logo flashed across the screen of his big Fony television set. "How's mum?"

Eric's red irises barely even shifted in his friend's direction, let alone looked like responding. I elbowed him accidentally.

"Dunno." He grunted. "She snagged a flight to LA last week on, uh, business. Couldn't get back for the holidays, I guess."

Kyle huffed, eyes not leaving the screen as he and Stan considered Co-op Story Mode versus Combat Simulator. "You got fucked, dude."

Cartman was silent. I offered to sit out the first couple games, 'cos three-way split screen was always shit. Didn't mind, though. I sat back, allowing Stan and Kyle to get absorbed in their gaming. The graphics were pretty dirty. Kyle chose to play as a black dude.

"What's up, man?" I muttered to a sleepy-looking Eric Cartman. "If it's that painful to talk to them, I'll drive you home."

He groaned and shifted around to lean against the arm of the couch, and I accepted the introduction of his heavy legs to my lap with a scowl and a glare. "S'not that, Ken. I don't think that. Don't wanna go home."

I relaxed, a bit. Maybe he doesn't like us any more, but he prefers us to solitude. Not that I'd leave him to his own devices under the influence of Percocet.

I unlaced Cartman's Adidas shoes and pushed them off to the floor. Kyle shot Stan in the head. Stan complained.

Eric's elbow was held firmly by the brace, but he'd folded his right arm over his chest, bruised fingers curling into a loose fist around the blue cast that covered his hand, wrist, and forearm.

When my feet started to go numb I decided it was time to move. Slipping out from under my friend's legs I moved over to sit between him and the couch, settling my legs over his abdomen in revenge.

"Hey Cartman. You awake?"

"Mm."

"So, do you still like us?"

"Mother of God, Kenny, you are so fucking annoying." He grumbled, shutting his eyes tightly.

"I'm just trying to clear stuff up, once an' for all, you know? It's Christmas."

"That doesn't make any sense."

"Sure it does. Lissen, bro, if you have other friends now, I won't care. If you don't wanna hang out with us anymore it's cool. We don't wanna make you uncomfortable or nothin'."

"Uncomfortable?"

"Kyle says you might be uncomfortable being forced to hang out with us like this."

"Kyle can suck my balls."

"What's up with his exclusive rights to your balls, dude? I'm jealous."

Stan took a quick victory lap around his couch when the score showed he beat Kyle by a single point, just because the Jew had gotten a point deduction from accidentally committing suicide jumping from a platform.

I sighed. "Y'know, Kyle and Stan are best friends. Like, super mega best friends. You know where that leaves me? The third, relatively friendly wheel."

He didn't respond, so I kept going. "You said to me once, long long time ago, that you kinda thought we were best friends. What happened?"

He groaned lowly again, and I felt the muscles in his abdomen tense beneath my legs. "Why you gotta get heavy on me now? I'm injured. And drugged."

"Cartman, open your eyes for a sec. Please?"

He squinted and blinked, reluctantly meeting my stare.

"They're red, didja know?"

"Huh?"

"Your eyes. They're reddish. It's kinda cool."

His expression morphed into something honestly pleading, and it made me sad. Did he want me to shut up? Lean back? Leave him alone?

"Please just be straight with me."

"Fine," I glared without any heart. "I want my best friend back."

"I don't know where he is."

"Then what are _you_," I scowled unattractively. "To me?"

He forced a breath out his nose, looking stressed and bored at the same time. "Anything you think I can be, Kenny."

I thought for a minute, then shifted around to straddle him as heterosexually as possible. "_Anything?_"

Cartman just looked legitimately confused and a little threatened, now. "What're you doing?"

"You said my best friend was gone," I breathed slowly. "So what's there now?"

His expression faded back into its usual grimace now. He turned his head to the side against the couch and attempted to huddle his bionic elbow closer to his body, like a scorned animal.

"Just the sick remains of an old douchebag." He muttered.

I frowned, leaning away from him.

So I was right. This whole act is just a way overdue personality disorder caused by his twisted stockpiling of old guilt. Regret was like a virus for Eric Cartman. It was an entity completely foreign to him, and so his body responded to it like it would to a disease. We'd all been calling him "sick" for a while now just 'cause we didn't really know what was _wrong_, but we were right, in a way. Maybe _he_ didn't even fully understand it. What I wondered is what caused it. You don't just wake up one day and realize that no one likes you 'cause you're a dick.

Hm. His mother.

Mrs Cartman had always expressed constant and unrelenting love for her only (that we know) son during most of his childhood. But when she drifted away these last few years, took "business" trips to faraway places and brought strangers to their home and generally lost interest in Eric, it must've been real devastating. Like, finding out nobody cares, and nobody has a reason to, because you're a douchebag. And you have no one.

"Hey, Eric. Didn't you hear me? I _love _you, man. We all do."

He shook his head. "Don't-"

"I'm _not _fucking with you."

He shook his head again.

I rolled my eyes. "I told you, I know in the past-"

"No!" He growled suddenly. "There's no _in the past_, Kinny, there's _now_. You wanna point out the shit I did good an' look at how I'm different—well fuck that. You know what I found out? I _can't _change, you poor prick! I'm stuck like this, forever, and you _don't _have to pretend to fucking deal with it; it's fucking patronizing. Let me go my own way, like I deserve, like I _want_, and you leave me alone."

Someone snorted loudly from the other couch.

I craned my neck around. It was Stan; his eyes were glued to his flashing screen but it looked like he'd finally heard us.

"Listen. Numb-nuts. We may've all said we wanted you to change at some point, blah blah blah, but we kept hanging out, didn't we? If you _actually _changed, you'd be about as interesting as Gay Bradley without the alien ancestry. We probably wouldn't even talk to you anymore."

"That's right, shithead." Kyle added helpfully.

I looked back to Eric, struggling with his inner-voice and the drugs telling him to close his eyes. In the end, he decided to pass out.


	2. Chapter 2

AN/

So this idea came to me a long while ago; I was planning to drag Kenny and Cartman through a multitude of holidays, beginning in the winter, but I think it'll just stay where it is for now. Also, this was going to be a one-shot, but it got way out of hand.

I dunno, I kept it around 'cos I have a huge boner for Cartman, obviously. If anything sounds off or oddly effeminate, blame my sister, who's acting as my beta. Enjoy, thanks for reviewing and stuff. I'm kinda new to this game.

~00~

I'm not concerned with injury. I don't really find time to be concerned about _anything, _truthfully. I'd evolved, see, since childhood. I was Kenny McCormick, obnoxiously sexy hard-knock from the upper end of ghetto South Park attending Park County High, not quiet, follow-the-trend and die-in-the-end Kenny from the past. I don't care about much because I know nothing can hurt me. So, caring about the actions of Eric Cartman, I always told myself that was just a twisted evolutionary leftover.

I'm not the only one, of course. Loads of other people have noticed that Cartman was an odd sort before I did. But that's annoying and I hate when I find out 'cos _I knew him first_. What right do all these strangers from random parts of Park County have to sidle up to _my_ former best friend? And maybe if I knew he'd just _screw you guys, I'm going home _I wouldn't need to worry about his tender self-serving conscience being corrupted by their kindly interest. I didn't even like him all that much at that point either. It wasn't until later, when I'd decided I should track down my crazy best friend rather than endure another third-wheel Stan and Kyle session alone, that I determined Cartman someone worthy of receiving positive human feedback. He was more than worthy.

When I approached Cartman, seriously, after so long with very little and often one-sided contact with him, I guess I was surprised and unsurprised. Part of me knew someone like him would break down eventually, and another part of me knew he would never _never _change. Cartman was a monster. Now more than ever. He dished out the same shit, but now he could give it without ever putting a part of himself on the line. It was no longer his prejudice and discrimination that were revealed in his hatred, only a mindless and insurmountably cold emptiness, as melodramatic as that sounds. He was quiet and powerful and those who didn't hear him so much any more said it was so much better but it was so, so much worse. Cartman deserved my attention 'cos he was a fucking _wreck_. And it was him and his calculating red eyes and his hardly detectable depression and his occasional petulant, almost childish persona that made me like him; he'll be mybest friend again and then _everyone'll_ be jealous.

It was five and a half days before I saw Eric again.

"Hey dude. Come on, we're going to Stan's tonight."

"It's called a cell phone. I got one, you know."

"It's more forceful this way."

"If you're too poor to afford standard appliances, you can just say so. I know you'd sell the phone before the toaster."

"Shut up, asshole, you know I got one. It's easier for you to say you're busy on the line, though."

I slipped into Cartman's house off the stone steps when he sighed in empty defeat and shuffled off muttering about shoes. His heavy shoulder brace had been swapped out for a smaller one just at his elbow, the whole arm still in a sling. The fingers of his right hand were no longer as hideously bruised, and he seemed to move them freely. Some cat hair clung to the back of his black shirt.

"Got your keys? My dad's taken the truck for the holidays, so I'm like, permanently without wheels."

He only grunted, jamming his feet into the black Adidas shoes he always wore.

The Mobile Command Center, Mrs Cartman's fancy minivan, wasn't in the driveway so I assumed she'd parked it at the airport rather than take a taxi. I decided not to bring her up.

It was a cold day, and while much of the snow from the 25th had melted, black ice and muddy slush had arrived in its wake, leaving the roads of South Park dangerous and ugly. Thankfully Stan was only about two blocks down and the next street over.

I hesitated when Eric slipped into the driver seat of his Volvo.

"You allowed to drive, bro?"

"No. Get in."

I sighed. Stan was a short way away. You only need half a hand to drive, right?

I decided to try not to distract him with smalltalk on the way over. He looked significantly better than he had last week, cleaner and definitely more coordinated, but still under-slept and—though it was hard to tell with him—probably still not eating properly. Which meant he was still "sick".

"What's on your shirt?"

Cartman's eyebrow quirked briefly, and his left arm shifted in its sling. "It's the primordial fireball."

"The what?"

He was silent for a moment, debating whether or not to even try to explain. "Y'know. Cosmic microwave background radiation. We did this in physics."

"Dude, you don't even _attend _physics, half the time."

I still didn't have any idea what he was talking about or why he had a goddamn graphic of this thing on his T-shirt, but whatever, if he'd become some sort of nerd while we were apart, I guess I can deal with that. If he starts talking Star Trek with Stan, though, I'm out.

He was silent. And I hate when he's silent, 'cause I'd sort of prided myself on the fact that he talked more to me than to most.

There was hockey tape around the passenger door handle, I noticed. The kind with the little Canadian flags on it. One of those ten cent squirt gun pistols clattered around in the cup holder above his stereo system. The vehicle itself still smelled like its owner; mostly like the gross locker rooms at the rink, and the melted ice you scrape off your blades, and pot, and a bit of that Snake Peel Axe, which he once said he liked because it "exfoliated".

In winter, the sun goes down at 4 p.m., so it was well on its way to the horizon line when Cartman parallel parked just beyond Stan's mailbox. I didn't see Kyle's car, so I figured he'd walked or wasn't here yet. A silver Camry was there, though, which meant Craig's crew was staying the night as well. Clyde, Butters, and Token, maybe Tweek.

Cartman groaned.

"Come on, dude. You know these guys well enough."

"I hate them." That could've been called a whine.

Randy's car wasn't in the driveway, so I assumed the rest of the Marshes were spending their holiday somewhere else. We did tend to make a lot of noise on these nights.

The door was unlocked so I went straight in and headed for the basement, Eric lagging a bit behind. Although this was just a small gathering for New Year's Eve, when Stan does go all out and throw a block party, it's the best. Mostly 'cos unlike most people's, his parties aren't just alcohol; we do other stuff. We graffiti and barbecue and set off fireworks and have imaginary ninja battles. One time we tried to bake, _while baked. _Sure, most of the time we just play video games, but even that's better than North Park parties where they just pump music into our ears and offer us cocaine. Maybe it's just because we're all from South Park, and we know how crazy it is that with our upbringing we're still in school, and sweet Jesus we're _still alive_.

"Clyde, I told you! No drinking till midnight, that's the rule! Back away, dude."

"Set the TV down there, next to mine. Where're your cables?"

We almost tripped over Butters on the way in. The boy was on his back in the entrance way, pointing up at Stan's underused disco ball, which was spinning quite well in its old age.

"Hey, fellas." He said drowsily, blinking slowly.

"Hey, Butters. You're gonna crush your mohawk."

"Oh, it's you, Kenny. And...oh, Eric, haven't seen you in a while." Butters saw Cartman's red eyes and squirmed uncomfortably in his place on the floor.

"Kenny! Cartman!" Stan swept over to us after ordering Craig to hook up his TV. "Did you see Kyle out there?"

I shook my head. Stan's face soured.

"That asshole. He's not answering his phone."

The door slammed behind us, signaling Kyle's belated arrival. He jumped the stairs and squeezed quickly past Eric and I, putting his keys in his pocket. Stan tackled him.

"Sorry, brother," Kyle laughed breathlessly, pulling at the headlock he found himself in. "My mom decided to berate me for boycotting family activities, even though I told her I was doing this a week ago."

"Well, you can tell Sheila," Stan grunted, dropping onto his back and taking his friend with him. "That due to her interference, her son was extremely close to breaking the super best friend code of mandatory attendance."

"I'll tell her, dude."

"I've had to control these morons by myself. Look, Butters is on my floor!" Stan pointed to the blond, who was about a foot away from the both of them, also on the floor.

I glued myself to Cartman and grinned bitterly. This was just the sort of SBF thing they did when I was alone, and hopefully with Eric around it wouldn't be so awkward. It's not like they weren't friendly with me or anything, just, there was something special about their friendship that I wasn't let in on. I'm certain they don't do it on purpose.

Clyde suggested we watch Underworld first, and after much debate the idea passed. Cartman looked about ready to turn and run. As tempted as I was to do the same for hatred of that corny movie, I knew that logically Kyle would vote for Pitch Black next, which, although quite corny as well, was one of my favorites. The movies wind us up for action, and I knew for a fact that Jimbo had gone down to the Mexican border last weekend to stockpile fireworks for Stan to use tonight. So if I had to sit through Underworld Evolutions listening to Token whine about the lack of black people a thousand times it'd be worth it for the explosives.

After the movies, we played around two hours of Call of Duty, and Craig kicked all our asses. Cartman, getting further embittered the longer he couldn't play video games, told Craig he had no life and was lucky the world decided to make a game more openly accepted than World of Warcraft or else he'd die a virgin in his parents' basement. Craig, of course, got his panties in a fucking twist and stood up to try and start a fight. When it got to the point where it looked like he might make negative contact, I butted in.

"Yo, Tucker. Not cool, man, he's injured."

Craig snarled. "He don't _talk _injured."

"Guys," Stan whined. "You're in front of the TV."

The fight ended uneventfully when Kyle suggested a break for fresh air.

Butters took off his shoes and socks by some habit of etiquette that was reversed in his drowsiness, and for some reason, we all followed his example. The grass of the Marsh residence's back lawn crunched just slightly with frost, and the orange haze of the nearest streetlight was far enough away to leave the area dark with shadow. The air was still.

While Stan and Kyle set up a launch pad for Jimbo's rockets, the rest of us scaled the old oak and laid around in the infamous Marsh treehouse. Through the rotted and fallen timbers of the roof, winter's stars shone dully in the quiet chill.

Clyde whispered some dirty joke to Token, who in the process of biting back a guffaw sounded kinda like a dying giraffe. Butters moved his arms and legs against the wood floor as if making a snow angel, his blond mohawk having miraculously maintained shape thus far. Craig knit his hands behind his neck and just stared at the sky with a content Tucker smirk on his face.

First I just curled my toes up against my feet, but then got the obnoxious idea to _play the virgin_. So I rolled over close to my best friend and curled up and pressed my toes to his leg, trying to tone the motion down by pulling up my hood at the same time.

Something rumbled in his chest, but I couldn't hear what was said. Then, all too soon, a heavy hand descended on my head and pushed the orange hood down. I felt the cold tips of his fingers along with the scrape of his thin plaster cast against my neck and shivered, glad to be able to hide my face with the cover of his side and the fort's fractured shadow.

I liked Cartman 'cause he was silent when I least and most wanted him to be. I liked him 'cause he seemed to hate everything with oscillating intensity, even me. Cartman was a sociopath, and I guess I kind of liked that.

Stan and Kyle had laid down some old bricks and dug a hole to keep the PVC pipe they used for rockets erect. They called us down, and we took turns lighting fuses and running away from the explosion. The fireworks Jimbo got were the whistley kind, which were our favorites. Kyle stuffed one of the little ones into an aluminum can, and it blew up on the ground, spraying the house with shrapnel. I thought it was lucky Tweek hadn't showed; he would probably hate this.

Clyde brought out the champagne, and we drank from mismatched plastic mugs to Stan's traditional prolific toast: in which we all shout _"_ALIVE_"_ and toss it back. The music from the basement leaked out the open door to dress our New Year's wounds with the soft downbeats of whatever indie band Kyle happened to be into at the time, and while the Jew and Stan packed each other's parachutes in the twilight, I think maybe the rest of us pondered our resolutions. Well, Butters was just playing with a Roman Candle.

Cartman crouched down before the embers of our last launch, prodding at the ashy remains with his less-injured fingers. He was chewing on the end of a joint, but he hadn't lit it yet.

I sat down next to him just as Token shrieked when some sparks from Butters's Candle came a little too close to his face.

Eric didn't look at me, and I really _really _hated that, so I moved behind him and pushed on his shoulders until he gave in and sat down in the charred grass. Petulantly slung my arms around the boy and let my breath hit his neck, chest to back.

He breathed out slowly, still staring at the crumbly bricks and smoke-stained PVC pipe. "Are we having a homoerotic moment?"

I laughed, but felt embarrassed. God, I _wish _we were having a homoerotic moment. What's it take with this guy? He's a fucking statue.

"Just so you know, I'm not fucking with you."

Cartman stood up so abruptly he actually pulled me to my feet with him, then stalked over to our quite nearly emptied stock of firepower. He pulled out a Roman Candle, caught Clyde by the wrist and took the empty champagne bottle from him as he ran by, then walked back over to the launch site.

"What're you doing?"

He turned for a moment, and the light from the basement door glinted briefly over his red eyes. I lamented not being able to see them in the night.

Cartman laid the bottle against one of the bricks and with a quick movement shattered the neck. "Watch. Just got this idea."

He took out his lighter and lit the fuse to the Candle, put it head first in the bottle, then dumped the whole shebang into the PVC pipe.

I swore and ran quickly from the site, accidentally knocking over Stan. "Get outta the way, bro!"

Stan looked up curiously from the ground just as the Candle shot off a round of fireballs. The bottle flew into the sky with the firework still attached, then shot back down with a delayed whistle while more and more fireballs clinked against the glass and exploded out the exposed neck. It was kind of horrifying, especially when the bottle cracked against the bricks and spun around spitting white smoke. A rogue fireball hit the ground next to Stan and fizzled out.

Butters laughing uproariously broke the burning silence.

Stan grinned. "I almost shit myself there, dude."

I pulled him up from the grass.

"But maybe warn us next time, yeah?" He directed a smirk cheerfully at a point over my shoulder.

Cartman's dark chuckle was punctuated by a casted forearm drawing itself against my throat. "That wouldn't be half as fun, y'hippie asshole."

Stan clapped Eric on his visible shoulder and something minuscule vanished from between them.

"Uh, guys," Craig sniffed from across the yard. "I can't feel my f-feet."

"All right. Inside, boys! Craig's got pussyfeet!" Kyle howled.

The basement rug was a warm reprieve from the crisp grass, and the couch never seemed more comfortable. Stan offered his place up for overnight, 'cos everyone was tired and it was late, suggesting they stay in the basement 'cause he had a pellet stove and it was warmest down here.

Butters cheered, took his shirt off, and settled on the floor in front of the TVs with a bunch of pillows. Cute kid; there wasn't much the poor Stotch wouldn't do to get out of his domineering household for the night.

Kyle turned the music off. Stan threw some blankets out for us, then took his own shirt off.

Somewhat guiltily, I glanced around to see if Eric would do the same, only to find him halfway up the stairs.

I cursed heavily and sacrificed my claim on the couch to run after him.

"Cartman! What're you doing, asswhipe? Stay with us. _Please_." I caught him at Stan's front door.

He looked down at the keys in his hand, swung them around on their odd rainbow ribbon, then finally looked at me, muttering around the unlit joint in his mouth. "I can't."

"What? Why?" I growled. "I will personally keep Craig out of your sight, if that's what this is. I hate when you make me talk like this, dude, but...I thought we were _getting _somewhere."

"No," He shook his head, and turned halfway to the door. "It's not that. My, uh...my mum's coming home sometime tomorrow morning. I gotta be there."

His red eyes had shifted back to their melancholy, and I hated his mother for it.

"Dude, no. Don't go back. You don't need to be there for her."

He shook his head again. "I do."

I sighed angrily. "You're so stupid, bro, why should _you_ have to go back? You're just telling her it's okay. And it's _not_, dude. Just stay with us. It's New Year's."

Cartman put his back to the door and slid down it, rubbing at his tired eyes. His elbow brace scraped against the polished wood. I crouched down before him, and my arms reached out but I pulled them back.

"I don't get it, Kenny. Why do you care? You never care. You grew up without anybody caring about you."

It was harsh, and he knew it. And he didn't care. He wanted to piss me off, drive me away.

I rocked back on my haunches, sat down, glared at the bluish radiation graphic across his chest, and wished I didn't have to admit this to myself.

Eric Cartman grew up spoiled, coddled and content to be unconditionally loved by the only person with reason to care. But now, his safety net burned beneath him, Cartman was finally aware of his own twisted character, his unlikable charade of humanity. I grew up without the care of anyone, nothing ever handed to me. And maybe that's what taught me _how _to care, while my best friend remained lost in his monstrous limbo of regret. I hated this curse I bore, this empathy that no one deserved from me. From _me_, Kenny McCormick, undead child.

And yet, I was horribly aware that I cared about Cartman. For no good reason. He was an ass, a venomous, self-serving ass. And maybe his new self-awareness pardoned him from some of his old wrongdoing, but really it just made him a buzzkill.

I hated admitting this. I loved Cartman, loved him like a brother, and something else a little less appropriate.

"You're my best friend, Eric, even if you _did _completely ruin my favorite super hero game when we were eight. Never cared about much till I noticed that."

He kept staring at the floor, then took out his lighter, flicked it a couple times without success, and ended up just putting both it and the marijuana back in his pocket. I shifted up to my knees and moved forward, moved forward until I could see the tiny splashes of yellow and green in the radiation graphic on his chest, till I could see the wide hollow eyes of the tire skull staring back at me. Not knowing what to do with my hands, I settled for taking his casted one in mine, pulling the keys from his fingers in the process.

"I don't know what to do anymore."

"Well, you can do two things. You can leave everything, go back to your mom, and stay like you are," I paused, he lifted his eyebrows. "Or you could stay here with us, with me, and maybe things could...get better. Dammit, I hate when you make me talk like this."

"I have an idea." He said slowly, stopping to search my face, and I don't know how many times I gotta tell him I'm _not fucking with him _before it sinks into his goddamn head. "You could come with me."

I hadn't thought of that.

"So, yeah, I'm going with, uh, with Cartman."

"I knew you two would wind up gay."

"Dude! I mean I'm going with him _physically-_"

"Oh, that's sorta dirty, man, I didn't need to know that."

"Stan, don't be an asshole! And for the record, your _best_ _friend_ act with Kyle ain't foolin' anyone, we all know you wanna stick it up his ass."

"Whoa whoa whoa," Kyle muttered from the other side of his friend, where I hadn't actually seen him. "You mean _I_ stick it up _Stan_. You don't really think this bitch would-"

"Dude! Shut up!"

"Look, I don't really care. We're leaving, see you tomorrow."

Stan turned to me again, still overcoming his embarrassment. "Aw, but we were just about to watch King Arthur. You _love _King Arthur."

"Can't, dude, gotta get back to Cartman's place. Mama C's getting back. You know how it is."

"Alright, Ken. Hey," He caught my arm. "I find out you bullied him, _at all_, and you're dead, get me? Dead."

I grinned crookedly in the dark. "Yeah, I got you."


	3. Chapter 3

Chapter 3

It was the dead of early, early morning, but still we could hear the crack of neighboring fireworks in the distance. The roads were bad. I almost fishtailed into the goddamn Tantalus Observatory on the way out of Stan's hippie residential district and over to my slightly poorer one. Y'know, like a couple steps above Kenny's low-income ghetto but still way below Kyle's rich Jew-rat mansion hill.

Some shithead drunk stole my street sign again.

"Dude, is this Stan's inhaler? He said he lost this."

Jesus, the last thing I needed was Kenny digging through my glove compartment like a fag. "Put it back, McCormick. Why you goin' through my stuff?"

The blond in my passenger seat put the device back and closed the compartment with this pout on his face that he doesn't know he makes. He doesn't know that any fuck in South Park can tell what he's thinking just looking at his face.

Well, except, Kenny doesn't usually care enough to emotionally _project_. I guess I don't really know him any more, or something, 'cos this Kenny is fucking annoying in his caring.

He thinks about me like I'm some dumb beast incapable of analyzing my own actions. He's only got the capacity for pity, and I've tried so damn hard to become somebody who don't deserve pity.

My house was cold and dark. It was good to be home.

There was a kind of tingling, setting into my toes and painting itself over my ribs. Unfamiliar, but with a slick of sweet nostalgia. First I wondered if this meant I was turning into a homosexual. Then—while realizing that Kenny would be utterly proud of my slight relapse into almost-dickishness—I also thought that maybe for the first time in a long time I was fucking _feeling_.

I've been with my best friend for over 12 hours. Maybe that's it. He used to be my best friend, any way. But who could honestly call themselves Eric Cartman's _friend_? It's just one of those titles that don't really exist. I've got loads of friends but none of them are mine.

Kenny flicked on the light in my kitchen. I turned the thermostat to 68 degrees; Mum can yell at me when the bills come in.

"There's pizza in the fridge."

He jumped to it. I cracked open a can of cat food for Kitty, and she waddled in, old and overweight, in a matter of seconds. I said hello. She said hello. I was late, she said, it was almost 1:30 a.m. and it was cold. But it ain't my fault, Kitty, I hate this place. I hate the school and I hate the people and I hate South Park. I might even hate Stan's basement, right now.

It was New Year's Day. What's that even mean? I have a whole 'nother year in South Park, with the same pricks and the same chicks. The same stale lessons. I just wanted change. I wanted to _think _about stuff for a little bit instead of just chargin' into every day like a 9-year-old child. I wanted to be like Stan; take a day for contemplation and then, when I figure out how to fix stuff, talk to Kyle about it. Except, I couldn't decide what to fix, and I don't have a Kyle to turn to.

I slid down to the floor and brushed a hand over Kitty's gray fur while she ate. Kenny sat next to me, demolishing the crust of his second slice of cold pizza.

Cute kid; he'd do anything for a purpose.

"You gonna eat?"

"Naw."

"You really should eat, bro."

"I really shouldn't."

He sighed, licking his fingers, and got up for a drink. "Whatever you say, babe. I know yer sick an' all. But at some point..."

He's always fucking with me. I didn't even wanna think about it any more.

Kenny, he's always been something kinda special. I mean, we're a pretty coarse, uncouth bunch, by design. It's in our adolescent nature to be blunt and vulgar, but Kenny said the deepest things and had the deepest ways, sometimes, beyond his stupid wife beaters and low-rising pants. The whole ghetto kid persona fools a lotta people, but I know McCormick's a little smart ass. And when his quiet ways of the past turned loud and profound, I admit I was kinda proud to really truly call him my best friend. All those motherfuckers was jealous 'cos my friend was a real hard-knock, unlike Kyle's pussy Stan.

And maybe I thought I didn't really deserve to stick around them. Maybe I was holdin' them back or something. Maybe I do love Kenny, love him like a brother I never had.

Kitty dismissed us with a wave of her ragged tail, and I made to get up. Kenny chokes on his Double Dew and scrambles to rise with me, his unexpected energy causing me to bash my elbow against the counter. Yeah, the broken one.

I breathed sourly through my nose, considering throwing the blond out of my house. It was late, after all. I knew Kenny had no desire to go home; I knew it was because of his family and his situation, not because of me. I'm what Kenny once called an "unsavory character", and I'm not super sure what he meant by that but it sounds unpleasant nonetheless. I'm the guy people defect to for money, for delinquent favors, and sometimes drugs. When McCormick busted into my circle of mediocre crime last year, I was unprepared for his forced proximity and bitter about his blatant dishonesty. "I _care _about you, dude," He'd said. No you don't, motherfucker, you've just decided that I'm _interesting_.

And now I've snapped my fucking limbs and can't get away from his attentions as easily as before. I hear his quick feet on the steps behind me, I _feel _his presence in my house. It's uncomfortable, different, unwelcome, it's the change I always wanted but never pursued.

Kenny brushed past me in the room, vaulting quickly over my properly mussed bed to close the window, asking me why it was open on a day like this. Said it was so I could smoke. The air was biting and in the thick shadows of my dark room I saw my best friend pull his hood up and rub his nose in the gray moonlight.

He looked down at the floor, bent over to sift through some of the junk there. Among other things, clothes, squirt guns, text books, suspicious-looking wrappers, a _lot _of paper.

"What is this?"

I plucked the paper from his hands. "Sheet music, dumbass."

I used to play keyboard for the band, you know? He knows that. My keyboard was there, now, in the dark shadow surrounded by piles of the offending sheet music and clanking energy drink cans. It was in perhaps the darkest corner of my little purgatory, the dovetailing walls littered with posters of dumb bands and, although I couldn't see them, some from the New Orleans Jazz Festival that I'd stuck over the old crap. South Park was a town not very musically inclined, though tended to lean, or rather mosh, towards heavy metal and red-neck country.

"No, I mean, I've never heard of any of these," He chirped, picking up sheet after sheet to squint at the titles.

I sat down resignedly at my keyboard bench. Of course you haven't, Kenny. These are the blues, a little lost religion for old African Americans, it's Wes Montgomery and Dave Brubeck and Louis Armstrong and Bessie Smith and a thousand other unnamed black people, why would poor Aryan Kenny know of it? Why would I? Who the fuck am I?

It would be a little awkward, uncomfortable for a while, but I could still play with my casts on. It was especially tough with the half-broken hand, but I love this stuff so I'll give it a shot. Isn't it ironic? Eric Cartman can _create_. Maybe it's only lilting, secondhand jazz and the soft downhearted blues of history's misfits, but that's something infinitely more than I was capable of a few years ago.

"What was that?"

Kenny had squeezed himself next to me. I felt his eyes trained on my fingers as they slid lazily over sticky piano keys in the dark.

"The opening to St. James Infirmary. An old one, but still good."

"You're so weird, man. I kind of love it."

I looked over at him and, seeing his eyes shining unabashedly up at me like I was some sort of god in this tiny room, I pushed his hood off to see him better in the dim light and sharp shadows.

Kenny snorted and threw it back up, and I knew he just suddenly got embarrassed. For what, I wonder? For being here, in my house, with _me? _He was regretting it, maybe. Regretting taking on my problems and my monsters. Regretting accepting whatever bet he took to pretend to care. He's always fucked with me, since we were in middle school. Since he grew a pair and started elbowing me back.

"Hey, McCormick. You're stunning, you know?"

The blond startled, looking straight at me like he was waiting for a laugh. But I could barely think; this was one of those things that, rather than ruminating on it for weeks, I just let slip by into existence, lulled by the soft tenor of the blues bleeding from my stiff and bruised fingertips.

"W-what?"

I reached over and pushed his hood off his head again.

"Like, everyone in South Park's been beat with the ugly stick a couple times, some more than others, but not you, man. Not at all. Sometimes," I breathed out slowly, sliding my fingertips over my piano keys once again with a melancholy sort of love. "I don't think you're from my little world."

I played a bit of the slow melody to "I Don't Stand a Ghost of a Chance With You" while he took some time to blush and stutter. It was true, I guessed, now that I had some time to really consider it. Kenny McCormick, with his blond hair and blue eyes and perfect fucking face, was way hotter than I ever gave him credit for. That's why the girls always fought to the death over him, I guess. I liked Kenny 'cos he was my best friend. But I also like him 'cos he's the prettiest, damned unluckiest bastard in all of South Park. You know what they say; misfortune is addicted to misfortune. We're a pretty messed up couple of kids.

"Eric."

I turned, keeping Thelonious Monk's easy blues melody, but my fingers finally faltered when my best friend pressed his lips to mine.

It was the warmest thing that'd happened to me in years.

~00~

AN/

Not to ruin the mood, but, this is a potential end. The end of my semi-pre-written chapters, anyway.

Thanks for...sticking with it, I guess. Thanks.


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